Errant Angels

by Stuart Fifield

  The Contessa emerged from the subdued interior of the Cattedrale San Martino – the duomo – into the warmth of the early afternoon. Speaking to those two Australians the previous week, about the choir stalls now displayed in the Museum Guinigi, had reminded her that it had been many years since she had been into the duomo. It had been built after the erection of a campanile or bell tower, and so – a little like the Contessa’s mind at times – was a little disorganized in its layout. The usual symmetry of cathedral architecture was largely lacking and the building was of a quixotic, cramped and unbalanced design. Still, it held many interesting features, not least of which included a painting by Tintoretto and the Volto Santo, the so-called Holy Face of Lucca, a much venerated wooden crucifix. Indeed, such was the fame of this object that Dante even mentioned it in his Inferno. The Contessa had tried to read Dante, but it had been many years before she had managed to master some, if not all, of the colloquialisms and other turns of phrase the great author had used. She had not been particularly religious since Enrico had been taken from her. Although she found some comfort in the silent tranquillity of the buildings themselves, she now debated if there had ever been a God in any of them. Such was her loss of faith.

  She turned left and continued eastwards down the Via del Duomo. She was humming quietly to herself as she strolled into the Piazzetta della Posta and did not see the two backpackers as they bounded down the steps and out of the post office. She collided with the man.

  ‘Geeze, I’m sorry about that,’ he said, grabbing hold of the elderly woman before she could fall over. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Er … yes … quite well, thank you, if only a little winded. No damage done, I assure you.’ As she replaced her glasses on her nose, it seemed to the Contessa that increased dangers on the roads from tourists on hired bicycles and on the footpaths from tourists reading guidebooks instead of looking where they were going, was a small enough price to pay for the continuing prosperity their presence brought to the city.

  ‘Oh! Hello again,’ said the young man’s female companion in a friendly voice. ‘Fancy meeting ya here, as they say.’

  For a moment the Contessa looked blankly into the face of the young woman.

  ‘It’s Victoria,’ continued the young woman, realising that some sort of prompt was necessary to assist identification. ‘You remember; you helped us with that ticket business on the station platform last week.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course … I remember now… You are the nice young couple from Australia. I had just been thinking of you both. What a pleasant surprise. How are you?’

  ‘We’re just fine, thanks,’ continued Victoria, ‘and we’ve had a really great trip.’

  ‘Have you been in Lucca for the whole week?’ asked the Contessa, all the time recalling more and more about these two youngsters and the circumstances of their last meeting.

  ‘No. We’ve been around quite a bit,’ said Jez. ‘That tip ya gave us about Roberta in the Tourist Information Office … what a find! She gave us a map and pointed out all sorts of things we should go and see.’

  ‘She even helped us plan a little trip further afield,’ continued Victoria. ‘She wrote it all down for us, so travelling was dead easy, ’cos all we had to do was show the paper and point to where we wanted to go.’

  ‘Oh … how very exciting,’ replied the Contessa. ‘So where did you go?’

  ‘In a big circle on the train,’ replied Jez. ‘Down to Arezzo, then to Siena, back to Florence and then Pisa and now back here for our last couple of days. We go home on Sunday. We want to go and look at the architecture of the Café Margherita in Viareggio and then go and look at a town called Petersinta, where there are a lot of artworks and artists and so on … sculptors, too.’

  The Contessa was sure that he had meant to say Pietrasanta, where she knew the retired actress Gina Lollo-brigida had established a reputation as a sculptress, but she kept that to herself.

  ‘And guess what?’ asked Victoria, without waiting for a response. ‘We’ve decided to spend our last night in Lucca at a Puccini concert.’

  ‘Yep … we did the Puccini stuff, like ya said, and thought that if the guy was that important to this tow… city, we’d better check out what he’s all about. So we had just enough for two tickets.’

  ‘How interesting…’ replied the Contessa, who found it a little difficult to keep up with both the accent and the speed at which Jez spoke. ‘I’m sure that you’ll enjoy yourselves. The music is ravishingly beautiful at times … very romantic.’ She smiled at the mention of ‘romantic’. Her dear Giacomo had been right when he had told her about the magic of the maestro’s music. ‘I’m having a concert of my own on Friday night – the Chamber Opera Group of Lucca. We call ourselves COGOL for short. I’ll give you some tickets… Do come along and listen to us. We raise money for all sorts of charities, so don’t tell anyone I gave you the tickets. You are both to come as my guests.’

  She wore a sling bag over her shoulder, like a Sam Browne belt. She pulled it around in front of her and rummaged through the contents.

  ‘Will there be any Puccini on the programme?’ asked Jez.

  ‘But of course… We are in Lucca… What would a concert be without Puccini?’ replied the Contessa, a sparkle in her eyes. ‘Here we are … two tickets for tomorrow. They’re the last two, so we should have a full house.’

  Jez took the tickets and they both thanked the Contessa.

  ‘It starts at seven-thirty sharp and we perform in the Istituto Musicale Luigi Boccherini. We also have a glass of wine and a little something to eat at the interval. It’s all included in the ticket.’

  Victoria was visibly gladdened that, if the music was no good, at least there would be food on offer.

  ‘Where’s did ya say the concert is?’ asked Jez meekly.

  ‘The Music Institute… It is named after the famous composer Luigi Boccherini … just off the top end of the Piazza Bernardini. The venue is on the ticket and there are signs to show you the way to the piazza.’ The Contessa had finally recalled everything she could about these two and was feeling quite relaxed and at home in their company. The young man, though of a much slimmer build, reminded her of her Luigi when he was in his early twenties.

  ‘Do you sing?’ asked Victoria, politely trying to hide the incredulity in her voice.

  ‘Me? Good gracious no!’ snorted the Contessa as she slung the bag back to its usual position and straightened her glasses. ‘Me … sing?’ she chuckled. ‘No, my dear, but I do play the piano.’

  29

  A few minutes later the Contessa reached Café Alma Arte. It seemed to her that the throng of tourists filling the Via Fillungo was as big a crush as ever. She was glad that Carlo had been left to Elizabeth’s tender ministrations for the day as she found herself thinking it best not to imagine the fun he would have had with his leash and the many legs of those in the street. She had entered the aromatic oasis, exchanged the usual pleasantries with Gianni, enquired as to the health of Fiorenza and the expected arrival of the baby and been assured that all was well. Then, as was the established custom, she had been ushered to her reserved table in the far corner of the café.

  ‘You only have to let me know if there is anything you and Fiorenza need, Gianni. You do know that,’ she said as she sat down at the table, to the suspiciously watchful glares of many of the other café patrons, many of whom were squeezed somewhat uncomfortably around their own small tables.

  ‘The Contessa is too kind,’ Gianni had smiled warmly back at her offer. ‘It is a comfort to us. Let us hope that the Blessed Virgin will smile on us this time. Will it be your usual tea and something for the palate?’ he continued. He knew perfectly well what her answer would be – it was always in the affirmative – but asking the question was somehow part of the tradition of a Thursday afternoon.

  It was some time later when the Contessa, whose mind was filled with the music for the forthcoming concert, suddenly became aware of a middle-aged couple approach
ing close to her table. The man walked with a heavy limp and his female partner seemed to be in the early stages of exhaustion. As they continued to walk towards the rear of the café, the man suddenly stumbled and nearly fell over. It was only the action of his partner that stopped him from doing so.

  ‘Goodness me, are you all right?’ asked the Contessa, a little alarmed. ‘Please do join me and take a seat.’

  ‘You speak English?’ asked the man, who seemed to be embarrassed by his near fall in such a crowded place. ‘That’s very kind of you. We could do with a bit of a rest; we thought a cup of something and a sit down would be just the thing.’

  For what seemed an age, three pairs of eyes looked at each other expectantly. The Contessa’s invitation had been well-meant and gratefully received, but she, herself, occupied the only chair at the table.

  ‘Oh! How silly of me!’ she said suddenly, realising this with a chuckle. ‘There are no other chairs, are there? Let me catch Gianni’s attention and he’ll soon fix that.’

  Within a minute two chairs had been produced and the couple had been seated to the continued accompaniment of quizzical glances from the other customers.

  ‘This is very kind of you,’ said the man after Gianni had departed with their order. ‘I’m Ewan Morgan and this is my wife, Margaret. We’re here on holiday … but I suppose that’s quite obvious,’ he laughed.

  His wife took his hand in hers and laughed, too.

  ‘How do you do? I’m Penelope Strachan and I’ve lived here in Lucca for’ – there was a pause as her expression tallied up the years – ‘well, for quite a long time,’ she said simply, smiling. ‘Have you seen the sights and visited the Puccini Museum? He is one of our more illustrious sons you know, but we have others as well.’

  They chatted on amicably for a few minutes, until Gianni reappeared with the couple’s order, which he placed expertly on the table in front of them.

  ‘Two cappuccini and some unforgettable dolci to excite the mouth,’ he said, grinning broadly. ‘Does the Contessa require any more tea?’

  ‘No, thank you, Gianni … the pot is still half full.’

  ‘Buon appetito,’ said Gianni and left them alone once more.

  ‘He speaks very good English, doesn’t he?’ asked Ewan Morgan, turning to watch Gianni’s receding back.

  ‘Please excuse me, I don’t wish to appear rude, but did I hear the waiter call you Contessa?’ asked Margaret, a look of curious respect on her face.

  ‘Hmm?’ replied the Contessa, but in such a way that she didn’t answer the question directly.

  ‘The waiter … did he call you Contessa?’ she repeated.

  ‘So comforting to see that the younger generation still have respect, don’t you agree? Of course, we don’t make a song and dance about such things in Italy these days … not since the king went. But we still have the old family titles.’

  Mrs Morgan almost rose from her chair and was about to embark on her next question when her husband cut across her and to save any possible embarrassment, changed the subject.

  ‘I must compliment you on your English,’ he said, adding some sugar to his cup.

  ‘How kind,’ smiled the Contessa, as she selected two dolci and put them on her plate. ‘I was born in Hampshire, actually,’ she added. ‘I do hope that your leg will soon be back to normal,’ she continued, avoiding Mrs Morgan’s questioning gaze.

  ‘Sadly, not,’ replied Ewan Morgan. ‘It is an artificial one.’

  ‘Oh … I am sorry,’ replied the Contessa. ‘I … er…’

  ‘It was during the war in Yugoslavia,’ said Margaret, ‘at a field hospital helping the local people… They were attacked and…’

  ‘How awful … the hospital was attacked?’ repeated the Contessa, indignation showing in her voice.

  ‘Ewan was hurt, along with many others,’ continued Margaret, her voice trailing off.

  ‘Were you in the army out there?’ asked the Contessa.

  ‘No, I was a surgeon with Global Medical Outreach,’ replied Ewan softly, the suggestion of what could have been a smile creasing his face, ‘but no longer, I’m afraid. The old hand can’t be relied on to behave itself all the time,’ he said with no trace of anger in his voice. ‘These things are sent to try us, I suppose.’

  The Contessa noticed that his hand, which Margaret still held in hers, twitched from time to time. ‘I really am very sorry for that,’ she said with genuine concern.

  ‘But I wasn’t killed; that was lucky,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of Global Medical Outreach?’ he asked, stirring his cappuccino. ‘GMO: it’s a charity working in trouble spots and disaster areas around the globe.’

  The Contessa had not, but she smiled demurely and nodded sagely as if she had.

  ‘How admirable that people should put themselves in such danger to help others,’ she said.

  ‘Anyway, such is life,’ continued Ewan. ‘After such a narrow scrape, we decided that life was too short to just think about things, so we decided to get out and about and see the world, to celebrate my lucky escape, as it were. And here we are in Lucca,’ he beamed, his lust for life all too evident.

  The conversation drifted between what to see and do in Lucca and the declining state of the Old Country on the other side of the Channel. The Contessa suddenly found herself musing on the unpredictability of life: on the cheerfulness of this man, who had been dealt a cruel slice of it; on Gianni and Fiorenza with the on-going difficulties of their first child; of her own tragedy all those years ago at the foot of the goddess Ceres’s statue; of the uncertain future facing the Mother Superior and sisters of the Convent of Saint Jerome Emiliani; of her own dear Giacomo, who had been taken from her unexpectedly, when he was barely out of his forties. Life could be kind and life could be cruel.

  ‘…so that’s what we plan to do with the rest of today,’ said Margaret, ‘so perhaps we had best get a move on.’

  As the Contessa watched the couple leave, she felt her usual enthusiasm return, dispelling the more sombre thoughts of life she had felt earlier. Mr and Mrs Morgan had not let adversity pin them down any more than she, herself, had; to her, life was for the living. She felt the teapot; it was still warm and like herself, still contained the glow of life. There were a couple of things to do before her angels arrived at the apartment for the final rehearsal before tomorrow’s concert and time was marching unstoppably on.

  30

  As the end of the day approached, two crises – one real and one largely imagined – had arisen in the otherwise placid city of Lucca.

  At Number 102 Via Fillungo – Casa dei Gioelli – the owner, Gregorio Marinetti, was becoming progressively more and more irritated as the day wore on. Nicola Dolci, his long-suffering assistant, had already fallen foul of his tongue and was busily dusting to keep out of his way. She was quite used to his erratic behaviour on the eve of one of his COGOL concerts, which she had long ago put down to his over-excitable artiste’s temperament. In fact, she looked forward to the actual day of the concert, when her employer would absent himself from the shop for the whole day in order to prepare himself for the rigours of his fleeting moment of stardom at that evening’s concert. At least her day would be quiet and reasonably stress free – which, she surmised, was more than could be said of his. She flicked her duster at the lined and pock-marked face of a minor Roman Emperor for the umpteenth time. The marble bust, which had been accustomed to being shown far more respect in a time long past, glared belligerently back at her. Nicola was not to know that the reason for Gregorio Marinetti’s excessive display of pre-concert unpleasantness had nothing to do with the build-up to that august musical event. Rather, it had to do with a stolen art treasure, bought illegally to be sold on – again illegally – at a considerable profit. More accurately, it had to do with the collection of the piece – or the non-collection, as it seemed to be. She turned her head and caught a glimpse of her employer seated at his desk in the other closet he fondly referred to as his office.
He was sitting dejectedly, his head resting on his left arm, his hand clamped over his mouth. He was staring at the telephone, which had been silent since they had reopened following the afternoon siesta. Something else Nicola Dolci was not to know was that it would remain open until well past closing time that evening.

  The palpable mood of despondency, which Nicola Dolci had felt blowing off the dejected bulk of her employer, was mirrored in the apartment of Maria Santini. Steam rose from the narrow stream of boiling water as the Contessa poured it into the cup, stirring the camomile teabags around with a teaspoon as she did so. She had arrived at the apartment with a packet of the tea in her sling bag. It was an indispensable part of her therapy equipment and was most effective in a very strong dose. She picked up the saucer and the cup, with its soothing contents and walked through to the spacious sitting room with its trail of discarded silver Carezze wrappers pointing the way to the balcony.

  ‘Here you are, my dear,’ she said kindly as she put the steaming brew on the table in front of Maria. ‘Sip this and you’ll feel a lot better. Be careful; it’s hot,’ she added as an afterthought, looking at her principal mezzo-soprano, who looked all the worse for wear.

  ‘Thank you. The Contessa is too kind,’ mumbled Maria, keeping her gaze firmly on the cup and its strongly coloured contents. ‘I do n…’ There was a long pause, during which nothing was said. The Contessa had been through these sessions before and knew the best way to proceed, which was at a pace dictated by Maria.

  ‘You have a truly beautiful voice, my dear, and do you not wish to share that special gift with everyone?’ she asked, quietly, after several minutes.

  The pair of herons said nothing as they danced behind the steam rising from the cup.

  ‘Naturally, I… I want to sing… That is what…’

  The silence descended once again as Maria took another tentative sip of the hot liquid. The Contessa sat quietly opposite her, her hands resting in her lap. It had been some time since the last Maria pazzia – Maria madness – as the other members of COGOL referred to such bouts of self-doubt and withdrawal.